The Evil Shepherd | Page 7

courteously to his
wife.
For a single moment her eyes were fixed upon those of her prospective
guest. He read their message which pleaded for his refusal, and he
denied it.
"To-morrow evening will suit me as well as any other," she acquiesced,
after a brief pause.
"At eight o'clock, then--number 10 b, Hill Street," Hilditch concluded.
Francis bowed and turned away with a murmured word of polite assent.
Outside, he found Wilmore deep in the discussion of the merits of
various old brandies with an interested maitre d'hotel.
"Any choice, Francis?" his host enquired.
"None whatever," was the prompt reply, "only, for God's sake, give me
a double one quickly!"
The two men were on the point of departure when Oliver Hilditch and
his wife left the restaurant. As though conscious that they had become
the subject of discussion, as indeed was the case, thanks to the busy
whispering of the various waiters, they passed without lingering
through the lounge into the entrance hall, where Francis and Andrew
Wilmore were already waiting for a taxicab. Almost as they appeared, a
new arrival was ushered through the main entrance, followed by porters
carrying luggage. He brushed past Francis so closely that the latter
looked into his face, half attracted and half repelled by the waxen-like

complexion, the piercing eyes, and the dignified carriage of the man
whose arrival seemed to be creating some stir in the hotel. A reception
clerk and a deputy manager had already hastened forward. The
newcomer waved them back for a moment. Bareheaded, he had taken
Margaret Hilditch's hands in his and raised them to his lips.
"I came as quickly as I could," he said. "There was the usual delay, of
course, at Marseilles, and the trains on were terrible. So all has ended
well."
Oliver Hilditch, standing by, remained speechless. It seemed for a
moment as though his self-control were subjected to a severe strain.
"I had the good fortune," he interposed, in a low ,tone, "to be
wonderfully defended. Mr. Ledsam here--"
He glanced around. Francis, with some idea of what was coming,
obeyed an imaginary summons from the head-porter, touched Andrew
Wilmore upon the shoulder, and hastened without a backward glance
through the swing-doors. Wilmore turned up his coat-collar and looked
doubtfully up at the rain.
"I say, old chap," he protested, "you don't really mean to walk?"
Francis thrust his hand through his friend's arm and wheeled him round
into Davies Street.
"I don't care what the mischief we do, Andrew," he confided, "but
couldn't you see what was going to happen? Oliver Hilditch was going
to introduce me as his preserver to the man who had just arrived!"
"Are you afflicted with modesty, all of a sudden?" Wilmore grumbled.
"No, remorse," was the terse reply.
CHAPTER V
Indecision had never been one of Francis Ledsam's faults, but four

times during the following day he wrote out a carefully worded
telegraphic message to Mrs. Oliver Hilditch, 10 b, Hill Street,
regretting his inability to dine that night, and each time he destroyed it.
He carried the first message around Richmond golf course with him,
intending to dispatch his caddy with it immediately on the conclusion
of the round. The fresh air, however, and the concentration required by
the game, seemed to dispel the nervous apprehensions with which he
had anticipated his visit, and over an aperitif in the club bar he tore the
telegram into small pieces and found himself even able to derive a
certain half-fearful pleasure from the thought of meeting again the
woman who, together with her terrible story, had never for one moment
been out of his thoughts. Andrew Wilmore, who had observed his
action, spoke of it as they settled down to lunch.
"So you are going to keep your engagement tonight, Francis?" he
observed.
The latter nodded.
"After all, why not?" he asked, a little defiantly. "It ought to be
interesting."
"Well, there's nothing of the sordid criminal, at any rate, about Oliver
Hilditch," Wilmore declared. "Neither, if one comes to think of it, does
his wife appear to be the prototype of suffering virtue. I wonder if you
are wise to go, Francis?"
"Why not?" the man who had asked himself that question a dozen times
already, demanded.
"Because," Wilmore replied coolly, "underneath that steely hardness of
manner for which your profession is responsible, you have a vein of
sentiment, of chivalrous sentiment, I should say, which some day or
other is bound to get you into trouble. The woman is beautiful enough
to turn any one's head. As a matter of fact, I believe that you are more
than half in love with her already."
Francis Ledsam sat where the sunlight fell upon his strong, forceful

face, shone, too, upon the table with its simple but